


Something about Holidays

by sporklift



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Christmas, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, Romotica, Story takes place in 2017, no pennywise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-06 09:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12814680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporklift/pseuds/sporklift
Summary: “For the last time, I’m not fucking watching Love Actually with you.”In which Richie Tozier doesn’t believe in love, drinks some eggnog, watches some manly ass movies, takes care of a dog, gets snowed in, sleeps with his roommate, watches a chick flick, and ends up falling in love anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My holiday gift to all of you -- holiday themed Reddie romotica! 
> 
> Special thanks to my beta reader: **nerdbomber** , for all the critique, edits, and wonderful thoughts! 
> 
> Also. I feel like I should jump on the bandwagon and say that, if you’d like to chat or geek out with me, I’m also Sporklift on Tumblr, so pop in and say hi if you’d like! You can also email me at sporksiewrites@gmail.com.

When Richie gets back to the house, wearing the same clothes as yesterday,  there’s a cab out front. Bill’s shoving his duffle bag into the trunk over Stan’s big-ass suitcase and the exhaust spills through the pipe. Richie notices the way the clouds look like fog gathering up around Bill’s ankles. They must really be racking up the meter, the poor sonsabitches. 

Taking pity on him, Richie approaches his old pal with a light, “Need some help there?” 

“Shit, Richie!” Bill jumps. “D-d-don’t scare me like that!” 

“Sorry, Big Bill. Just wanted to know if you needed some help gettin’ that junk in the trunk,” Richie rubs at the back of his neck. And, he is. Sorry, that is. No matter what it might look like, he doesn't go out of his way to be an asshole. 

“Help me get my bag back in wwwould ya?” Bill rolls his eyes, and scoots over to let Richie into that cloud of car exhaust. He’s already Tetris’d the hell out of the trunk. Or, well. It was probably Stan who’d done all the Tetrising, hence Bill’s difficulty. 

Richie considers the scene: the big suitcase is snug and wrapped in the carry-ons and shipping boxes of Hanukkah and Christmas presents. It’s only the matter of the big yellow duffle. How to force the fit…

And the way the felt around the drunk is puckering, a little, in one corner, Bill’s knuckles pink from cold as he’s holding onto the outer edge of the trunk and the way the icicles are dripping off the trimming of the house…

As though that’d help him figure out how to Tetris Bill’s bag, he gnaws on the inside of his cheek and tries to re-focus. And he tries by saying, “It must be great that Hanukkah and Christmas are so close this year, huh?” 

“Yeah. G-great,” Bill murmurs, tugging on the corner of his duffle. “Both of our families, back t-to back, non-ssstop.” 

“What could go wrong?” Richie winks and nudges Bill with his elbow. “I mean, you did marry into his family knowing full well they have weeklong holidays.” 

He turns a little, staring past Bill’s head, to see Stan and Eddie talking about something in the window. It’s a funny, contrapuntal picture. There’s the menorah and blue banners and the green and red mixing in beside it -- the tree lit up prettily in the farthest corner while Mike’s dog is scampering around - darting in and out of view from the window. 

Mike, who’s off on a ski trip with his girlfriend. Mike, who’d left poor Mr. Chips for Stanley to take care of. Stanley, who has to go back to Maine for the Double Epic Holiday Fest with Bill. And that just leaves Mr. Chips with Eddie and Richie. And, later, just with Richie. 

It seems like, every day, their house is getting emptier and emptier. Granted, they hadn’t even meant to stay in the place so long after college. They were gonna get out and start their individual careers and spill into The Real World. And then, shit happened, and they didn’t. 

Well. Ben and Bev managed, at least, half that. They moved out, like, a year ago, and even moved (for the time being) to Chicago for Beverly’s big fashion internship. 

And, yeah, they’re all super glad for Bev. But it’s lonely enough, down by two, in the house alone. The whole fucking city seems practically empty without Ben and Bev. At least, it does to Richie. 

He’d thought, for a hot second, that Bill and Stan were going to move out, too, when they’d first gotten together. But, thankfully, the only way they had moved was down the hall. It’d been a chaotic shuffle of bedrooms and space, but ultimately, with Ben and Bev out of the house, and Stan and Bill doubling up, Richie and Mike and Eddie all got their own rooms. So. There’s that. 

Back when there were seven living here, in this tiny house, they’d had to pair off to make the four-bedroom layout work. Originally, it was Bev on her own, and then everyone else paid off: Richie and Stan, Ben and Bill, and Eddie and Mike. And then people started coupling up romantically and sexually and shit. And then…

And then Richie got his own room. Which is  _ nice.  _ It’s great. A little less close and cozy than it’d been, way back when. 

But Richie has to get used to it. The house is about to empty like a tube of Vagisil in Eddie’s mom’s medicine cabinet. For the next two weeks, instead of five guys plus dog, the house will just be occupied by two guys plus dog. And then the week after, Eddie’ll be back with his mom and Richie’ll be stuck in their fucking rental house; just him and Mr. Chips. One guy. Plus dog.  

 

 

By the time Richie and Bill snap the trunk shut, Stan and Eddie have materialized out here in the snow. Eddie’s wearing a hat with a fucking puff ball on top of it and he has Mr. Chips on a bright red leash. He’s sniffing the hell out of some snowbank, deciding whether or not he wants to piss on it. The dog, obviously. Not Eddie. 

And Stan’s walking towards them, nose pointed down to his phone. He’s probably working out some logistical bullshit or something. Routes to the airport, probably. And when he finally reaches them, he nods to Richie. “Thought you were gonna sleep through us leaving.” 

Richie places the most delicate of hands over his heart, and says, channeling his inner Scarlett O’Hara. “An’ miss your big send-off to for that big ol’ bird in the sky? Why, fiddle dee dee, I’d  _ never!”  _

Stan rolls his eyes. “You didn’t come out when we knocked on your door.” 

“I was out,” Richie says, giving a wink to make sure his friends got the gist. Not that it’s all that important for them to know he’s still getting action. But it won’t  _ hurt  _ anything to let them know he’s still Got It, thank you very much. “This cute barista and I bonded over a couple of Newports and shared an Uber. She saw the bulge in my pants and just  _ demanded  _ I come back to her place.” 

He can see Eddie roll his eyes next to that big snowbank and can hear him groan out the cold, “Shut up Richie,” that follows. 

Stan purses his lips by way of seconding Eddie’s sentiment, but he lets it spread into a smile and says, “Well. At least you weren't made into a skin suit or anything.” 

“Nice to know you care, Stan, my Man.” 

Richie’s winked and now it’s Stan’s turn to roll his eyes and he’ll turn to Bill and say, “Ready to go?” and they’ll slide into the backseat of the cab with Richie and Eddie waving them off. They’ll disappear with the backdrop of friendly waving and a lighthearted flipping off when Richie sends them off with a crude gesture and a loud “ _ GET IT!”  _ as the tail lights slide out of view. 

From his side, once the car disappears, Eddie shakes his head. “Well. I’m gonna take Mr. Chips around the block.” 

 Eddie didn’t ask Richie to come with him, but Richie has already said something about needing to go inside anyway and makes his way up the porch. Other than the festive lights on the tree, up along the window, and the yellow light over the stove, it’s dark inside. 

And -- just for the record -- Richie isn’t freaked out by the mere fact he’s alone in his own house. That’s just fucking pathetic. 

Maybe it’s how the house smells like pine and cold in every room. Or maybe it’s how the house makes all sorts of moaning and groaning sounds on its own and, no matter how long Richie lives here, he’s never going to get used to it. 

And, actually, this might be the first time Richie’s ever been entirely alone in the house, now that he thinks about it. 

Usually, there’s one roommate here at minimum. Or at least Mr. Chips. 

But he won’t entertain the thought.  Instead, he puts his phone on its speaker and blares  _ “Back in Black”  _ loud enough to shake the ancient creaky shutters. He jumps in the shower and brushes his teeth while he’s in there. He’s breathing in deeply as the scent of hot water and Irish Spring overtake the grime and sweat from the night before. 

 

 

The music stops abruptly while he’s shaving. The silence startles him and before he knows what he’s thinking, he cuts himself on the ridge of his jaw bone. There’s a sharp pain and a thin red trail of blood marring the angle. He hisses out a pained, “Fuck,” and almost drops his razor. 

_ Take a fucking chill pill, Tozier. It’s just Eddie coming back from his fucking walk with Mr. Chips.  _

And he knows that’s exactly what it is. It’s just Eddie. Eddie, who doesn’t like it when Richie blasts his music, who doesn’t like Richie’s music even when it’s quiet but still bought him those speakers last Christmas. 

There’s nothing creepy going on right now, and Richie knows it. 

Though, that’s not to say there isn’t the tiniest part of him that isn’t relieved when he comes down the creaky stairs, towel still wrapped around his waist, and sees Eddie at the kitchen island. His laptop’s open and he’s jotting something down in his notebook and wearing his fucking reading glasses. He clicks his pen and sticks it between his teeth and Richie can’t help but smile at his concentration as he makes his way closer. 

Guy’s gonna be the world’s cutest CEO someday. 

So cute. Especially when his face scrunches up as Richie passes him. He’s turning pink in his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, when he says, fingers moving over the keys. “You look like you’re freezing.” 

Richie squeezes a handful of his hair, a decent amount of water splattering on his shoulders. There’re goosebumps on his arms and chest but he’s not going to admit to it. Retrieving his carton of orange juice from the fridge, he shrugs. 

“Nah,” He grins and raises the carton to his lips. “My nipples are always this perky.” 

Eddie stops typing and blows out, lips pursing and cheeks flattening through the breath. “Shut up, Richie. Just put some fucking clothes on.” 

And Richie gives him a mock salute and trots back up the stairs, hearing Eddie holler up after him. “And drinking out of the carton is so disgusting!” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He finally comes back downstairs at 3:30 in the afternoon, and Eddie’s moved on from work. He’s curled into the corner section of the sofa, staring at the TV and absently petting Mr. Chips down his scruff. And he’s just so fucking cute with his feet up on the ottoman, ankles crossed, with colorful Christmas lights battling the blue Hanukkah ones for which can settle better over his face.

Richie slides onto the couch, booting Mr. Chips’ head off Eddie’s lap. “What are we watchin’ this afternoon, Eddie?”

Even though he asks, he still turns to peer at the screen. Looks like AMC.

_Ugh, not more Walking Dead…_

But before Richie can complain about it, the commercial ends and he’s greeted with Puffy Face-Marlon Brando in a smart suit.

“ _The Godfather_ ,”  Eddie says, even though by now it’s obvious. His hands come around and hold Richie’s ankles from where they’re crossed on his thighs.

Richie grins. “You're holding onto me a little tight there. If you want me to start rubbing you, you just need to ask.”  

It’s not his fault. It just...spilled out.

“Ugh,” Eddie rolls his eyes, “Shut up.”

“Hey, I didn’t think you were into feet, but, different strokes for different folks, as they say. Whatever kind of stroking--”

“You’re the one who put yourself in my lap, here--”

“Technically not. But if you insist,” Richie retreats there, folding his legs under him. He _swears_ he sees Eddie frown as he does, but that’s immediately replaced with a groan -- annoyed and high -- when Richie flings himself over, all the way. He’s sitting bridal style on Eddie’s lap, and Mr. Chips jumps down from the couch when Richie flings an arms around Eddie’s neck. As though he wants nothing whatsoever to do with them. Gruffing his voice and scratching at his throat, Richie has to take advantage of the situation. “I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse, Eds.”

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie rolls his eyes and the Christmas lights shimmer in them. His hand finds its way onto the small of Richie’s back and Richie blames the poor insulation for his shiver. Eddie continues: “And I’d rather not have a horse’s head in my bed, thanks.”

“What about another kind of head in your bed?”

Eddie’s red as the garland on the tree. He groans and turns back to the TV, letting Richie stretch out over his legs. “Shut up, jackass.”

  


Maybe Richie’s still in hookup mode from last night. That’s got to be the reason he almost asks Eddie, as the credits for _Godfather Part III_ roll, if he wants to go upstairs. As in, if he wants to go upstairs _with him._ As in, if he wants to go upstairs with him and rattle Eddie’s headboard for a few hours.

It’s probably just some weird mix of sitting in the same place for three long-ass movies, and whatever brand of lazy domesticity it’s bringing out, and his habit of anything sweet and nice like this being nothing more than a prelude.

Richie doesn’t ask, though. He can imagine how Eddie would react. He’d probably turn cherry red and tell him to fuck off.

Or he’d turn even redder than that and say “ _Okay,”_ like he used to.

But it’s been a few years since then. So when Eddie trudges up the stairs, he does it alone.

(But not before he flips Richie off, for yelling “ _Sweet dreams, babydoll,”_ up after him.)

  


Richie won’t go to bed for another two hours at least. He takes Mr. Chips outside so he’ll shit before bedtime. Their street is lit up under lamps and neighbor’s windows and sheets of snow so heavy he’s pretty sure Frosty the fucking Snowman’s about to drop from the sky.

It’s so dark and lonely inside the house by the time he gets back, he lets the dog sleep at the foot of his bed for the night.

  


He doesn’t think back on this memory very often. But when he does, it’s because it’s 2:00 in the fucking morning and he’d just spent all afternoon watching the Godfather trilogy with Eddie and almost invited him upstairs and he can’t sleep because fucking Mr. Chips is snoring too loudly and he can still see Christmas lights reflecting off Eddie’s face every time he closes his eyes. That or any other sort of memory. They all phase together after a while.

  


_“Hey there, Eds. What are you doing here?” Richie shoved his way through the door, dropping his backpack on the ground. Class had largely been a bust -- considering nobody wanted to actually sit in a lecture hall at 6:30pm on Valentine’s day He couldn’t really blame them, though. If good ol’ T.A Tozier hadn’t_ **_had_ ** _to be there for the screening - he probably would’ve skipped himself.  He slid up next to Eddie on the island, trying to forget how tired he was. “Shouldn’t you be out, like, wine tasting or having a candlelit dinner or doing some other gay shit with your boyfriend?”_

_Eddie lifted a half-full bottle to his lips. He slurped it up, holding the bottle by the neck, and then swished it around. “I don’t have one of those, anymore.”_

_“Oh shit.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Are you okay?”_

_“Nope.”_

_Richie sighed and placed a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “Wanna talk about it?”_

_“Nope.”_

_“Wanna get wasted?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_For whatever it was worth, they didn’t talk about it. Not really. They finished the beer, and wrote up an I.O.U for the Amaretto they found in the back of the cupboard, not even knowing which roommate bought it in the first place._

_“Y’know,” Richie said, once they’d drained out the last of the liquor between their glasses. “It’s actually a good thing you two broke up.”_

_Eddie snorted and Richie slid his hand between his shoulderblades._

_“No, I’m serious,” Richie insisted. “He was a grade-A-fucking douchecanoe. Fucking Grant. He ties his sweaters around his shoulders. He broke up with you on fucking Valentine’s day. God. What a fucking piece of--”_

_“Richie.”_

_Richie snapped his head towards Eddie, stopped mid sentence. He circled his free wrist towards Eds and took a sip of Amaretto. “Point is, if you’re gonna be with anyone, you should be with someone who’s not a douche.”_

_Eddie smiled. Richie could’ve sworn he saw him lean in, could’ve sworn he saw Eds look down to his mouth. Richie’s stomach flipped inside out._

_“And who are you to tell me what kind of guy I should be with?”_

_Richie shrugged and flushed warm from the alcohol. He drained his cup and said, “Nobody. But, Eds, you deserve somebody...better. Someone who’ll take you on corny dates and make you smile and laugh and shit. Someone who’ll hold your hand and suck your dick and just generally not be a douche, you know?”_

_“I guess so,” Eddie threw his head up to knock back the last of the drink. It slid past his lips, dark, and staining the soft parts inside his mouth._

_“Well, I know so. You’re too good for him, Eddie. I mean…” Richie set his glass back on the countertop and adjusted his glasses on his nose. “His fucking name’s Grant._ **_Grant_ ** _. That’s a total douchebag name.”_

 _“Like_ **_Richard_ ** _is any less douchey of a name?”_

_There went Richie’s stomach again. Flippy fucking flopping over. “Well. I never said I wasn’t a douche. But...”_

_Eddie practically started sparking. Maybe it was the light gone hazy from alcohol. Maybe it was the way their sides were touching._

_Richie could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He could smell the Amaretto and the beer on Eddie’s mouth and  -- Jesus Christ -- he was so close and warm._

_“But?” Eddie prompted, and his nose was touching Richie’s and Eddie’s hand was on his thigh and Richie’s goddamn mind was shorting out._

_“I guess...I could....if you want someone to hold your hand or...” His whole throat felt dry. Eddie’s hand slid up, a little on his thigh and Richie’s voice went gravelly. “Suck your dick…or...”_

_“How drunk are we?” Eddie asked, tongue darting out from his lips._

_“Just drunk enough,” Richie murmured, hands rising to either side of Eddie’s face. And he kissed him -- hard and wet and even a little desperate._

_Not that he was desperate. At all._

_Not even when they scrambled up to the room that Richie, at that point, still shared with Stan. Not even when Eddie bit down on his shoulder, toes starting to curl._

 

 

Honestly, it’s pathetic enough that Richie was a fucking Valentine’s rebound that he doesn’t take the memory out very often. When he does, he has to be pretty wasted. Or horny. Or both.

But it’s okay. Because, if he wants to have a fantasy about Eddie, he’s got plenty of material. Both theoretical spank bank stuff and actual real memories. When it’d started that Valentine’s day, back when Richie was twenty-one, they’d claimed that they were never going to do it again.

But, they ended up doing it again.

“There’s something about holidays,” Eddie had once said, flushed and labored with a painted Shamrock on his cheek while Richie licked a wet stripe along one of his hipbones.

Which...the more Richie thinks about it, the truer it rings.

They’ve never actually dated. Not really. They’ve never even tried. But even though they always said, afterwards, ‘We can’t do this again,’ the next time there was something marked on the calendar, somehow, they ended up naked. Not just on sexy holidays like Valentine’s Day or St. Patrick’s or Halloween. But also Thanksgiving and Easter and Passover and The Fourth of July. They had once even made an extremely compelling case for Arbor Day.  

And it lasted, on and off, the better part of three years. Richie’s not entirely sure why they stopped. But, fact is, they stopped and they haven’t felt that holiday-charged pull to one another for two years now.

Well, almost. Richie’s not sure, given his near lapse in judgement from the night before, if he can say so anymore.  


	3. Chapter 3

Maybe it’s because it’s the last day before Richie gets his Christmas vacation, but the clock ticks by even slower than normal. And, on a normal day, it’s a fucking drag. That daily slodge, nine hours in a hot cubicle with sweat building on his upper lip. Even though he gets to run his mouth for, more or less, nine straight hours. If there’s any perk to working in a fucking call center, Richie guesses that’s it. 

His job isn’t glamorous, and not at all what he wants to be doing with the rest of his life, but it’s paying the bills. It’s good enough. It’s been good enough for a little while. 

And that’s the kind of shit he has to keep on reminding himself, typing info on the computer -- his program open on half a window and Minesweeper in the bottom left corner. “...yes. Okay. Got it,” He mutters, selecting a little box -- a little green 3 rising. “All right. Thank you so much, Mrs. Johnson.” 

She chatters and he hears the mousy shrill timbre in her voice. The fan whirs overhead in the cubicle next to his, not doing anything to take away the heat surrounding him. “We’ll get someone back to you right after the holidays. January fifth at the latest…” 

He selects another grey box. Bomb. Boom. Boombomb. He gnaws on the side of his cheek and - suddenly - remembers he should probably be putting in her information. He thinks he can remember it, but it’s too late now. On the other end of the line, the woman breathes. Kind of heavily. “Can’t wait,” she says. 

“Mmmhmmm,” Richie says, hands above the spacebar, ready to end the call and start a new game of Minesweeper. “Have a great one, Mrs. Johnson. Buh-bye now.” 

“Good-bye.” 

And Richie smashes the spacebar and tries to remember all the stats from the call before he plunges into the next call, crushing the yellow smiley face and going off the script he’s had memorized for a little more than a year now. 

See? It’s good enough. It’s fine. 

But it’s not that he isn’t practically fucking skipping when he steps out of the office for the last time till January. 

Either way, soon enough he’s walking home again. After the longest shift of his motherfucking life, he’s heading home again. In the dark, because it’s December and the sun sets at, like, four in the afternoon. At least it’s not snowing right now. Though -- supposedly, they’re in for a fucking doozy in the next few hours. So, Richie follows the white streetlights and the red glow at the end of his cigarette as he walks on home, bundled up in his coat. 

Sometimes, when he gets to the block he lives on, it feels like his house is  _ staring  _ at him. Back when he and Stan still shared a room, they’d talk about how it’s probably haunted. (Or, Richie would talk about how it’s haunted and Stan would throw his pillow across the room and clock him right in the head.) 

But, thankfully, when Richie does get home, he’s not alone. Mr. Chips barks in the doorway, entire butt shaking so fast his tail looks like a propeller. He hops up on Richie’s knees and his tongue laps at his knuckles.  And Eddie, much less enthusiastic than Mr. Chips at Richie’s arrival, is seated pretzel-legged in the living room. He must’ve gotten out of work earlier - he’s in a sweatshirt and jeans and not at all the Oxford and khaki shit Eds wears to The Office. He’s on the rug, unsurprisingly, since the hardwood is like ice on the balls. What is surprising, however, is the small cluster of boxes and wrapping paper lying around him in a semi-circle. 

“What’s shaking, Eds?” Richie asks, thumbing his keys into his pocket. 

Eddie twists around, sweatshirt wrinkling on his is body, like it's too big. He nods to Richie, all nonchalant. “What does it look like, genius?” 

“Like you’re wrapping. Hardcore. Want me to give you a bassline?” Richie grins and collapses on the couch. “I’m fucking great at beatboxing.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes and turns back to his project. There are three gifts already wrapped. One of them is for Stan. Richie can tell, because of the blue wrapping paper covered in dreidels and Stars of David. It looks like it practically threw up Hanukkah. The other two boxes have Christmassy paper, complete with cartoon sleighs and dead-eyed reindeer. 

Of the boxes that lie unwrapped, there’s five more. Richie reaches out for the largest of the five -- a large garment box from Macy’s, and he grins. “So is this one for me? Is it sexy lingerie?” 

“I hid yours, jackass.” Eddie shoves him back towards the couch. “You’re not snooping this year. Go away.” 

Richie rolls his eyes, but collapses into the cushions. Mr. Chips hops up on his stomach, nuzzling under his chin. “Did you want any help?” 

“From the guy who throws his gifts into Target bags? No, thanks.” 

“Hey!” Richie protests, loud enough that Mr. Chips lifts his head and ticks it to the side. “I give fucking great gifts.” 

“Doesn’t mean you know how to wrap them.” 

“You wound me,” Richie sighs, loud and overdramatic, complete with the back of his hand over his forehead. Nevertheless, he reaches for the leash and loops it around his wrists a few times. Mr. Chips starts vibrating again, and snorting in excitement. Increasing the dramatics, Richie jumps to his feet and pulls out a new Voice: a Frenchman “You cut me to ze veh-ry quick, Monsieur Kas-braque! I shall make my exeunt, so zat you may ponder your hurtvul vords!” 

  
  


 

Mike had trained Mr. Chips pretty well on the leash. The furry little fucker sticks to Richie’s heels like glue, except for when he starts sniffing around people’s mailboxes and the five-foot tall snowbanks. Which Richie really can’t blame him for; if Richie had a superpowered nose, he’d probably want to take in everything, too. 

But they do have to go ‘round the block three fucking times before Mr. Chips finally finds a place worthy of his piss. And when Richie finally gets back, Eddie’s out of the house. 

Richie’s not much of an animal person. He’d like to be, but it isn't an option. It’s just his attention sucks, and he tends to forget to take his Ritalin and even when he doesn’t, it’s not a guarantee he’ll remember to take care of the fucking creature.

If his parents had ever bothered to get him a goldfish or a gerbil or anything, Richie figures he would’ve killed it within a week. 

Neglect. It’d be on their fucking family crest, if they had one.  

When Eddie leaves for Christmas with his mother, poor Mr. Chips might be in for a bit of a hard time. 

“Sorry about that, furry man,” Richie mumbles, taking a towel and rubbing his paws down so the house won’t smell like wet dog. Mr. Chips licks at his chin, panting loud.  

  
  
  


He sets up dinner at the coffee table, instead of the kitchen island, so he can dine with Mr. Chips. The dog eats on the floor, and Richie slips him a little bit of Hamburger Helper, smiling as the dog’s tail starts to pound against his hip. 

Richie finds training treats in the cupboard and curls up on the floor next to the couch and works through all the tricks he can think of to see what else Mike has trained his dog to do. 

Which, all in all, add up to: Sit, shake, and roll over. It doesn’t add up to: stay, touch, play dead, or Find Richie’s Present. 

  
  


 

When Eddie comes home, Richie’s still curled up with Mr. Chips, scratching behind his ears and making a canine foot twitch against the floor. 

Eddie shakes a mountain of snow from his coat and his matching fucking scarf before he hangs it up and places his fancy ass shoes on the rack and slides onto the couch. He’s lying on his side, knuckles resting on his temples, quiet. And when Richie slips the dog another one of his scraps from dinner, he says, “If you make that dog fat, Mike’s gonna kill you.” 

“I wouldn’t make Mr. Chips fat,” Richie says, ruffling Mr. Chips ears around his head. He puckers his lips and nudges his face closer to the dog’s, “No, no I wouldn’t. Would I, Mr. Chips? No. No, no, no. I love him, don’t I? Don’t I? Yes, good boy.” 

Eddie lets off a dry chortle and Richie can practically  _ hear  _ him roll his eyes. “I’m not taking the fall for you when he can only roll down the stairs.” 

Balancing his elbow on his knee, Richie twists to look Eddie in the eye. They’re only half a couch cushion apart and Eddie’s fingers are splayed through his own hair. “Hey! For the rest of the week, we are  _ co-parenting  _ Mr. Chips.” 

Eddie shakes his head, laughing. It’s more of a snort, and Richie can’t help but notice his cheeks are still pink from the cold. “God. We’d be terrible parents.” 

“Think we’ve got ours beat?” Richie can’t help but ask, hand stilling on Mr. Chips’ back. The dog blinks back up at him, clearly unhappy with Richie for halting the affection. 

Eddie just frowns and looks down onto the material of the couch, but then he says, “Well,  _ duh _ . You could parent circles around Went and Maggie.” 

But that, really, isn’t saying much. 

Richie changes the subject. “So, what were you up to for the last few hours?” 

“I was at dinner with a guy from work.” 

“Dinner or  _ dinner-dinner?”  _ Richie quirks an eyebrow, unsure why he’s asking. It doesn’t matter. Frankly, it’d be a good thing if it was  _ dinner-dinner  _ because as far as Richie knows, Eddie hasn’t gotten laid in a while and he deserves to get laid. He deserves to get laid, like, all the time, but Richie doesn’t think he wants to know. But he asked anyway. Because, apparently, Richie is a fucking idiot. “I’m surprised you didn’t get him a drawer in your room already, considering how fast you usually go…” 

Yep. A fucking idiot.

Eddie glares at him. “Just dinner.” 

“Oh?” 

“He’s super straight, anyway.” 

Okay, so maybe it’s not  _ so  _ bad to know. 

  
  


 

They flip a coin to see who should take Mr. Chips out before bed. Richie loses.  But he doesn’t mind. It’s kind of fun to see the dog get so worked up the second the “W” word leaves his lips. 

_ Walk.  _ The “W” word is “walk.” Not fuckin’ “wheat” or “wumpus” or some shit. 

The dog’s on high alert the second Richie says the word, sitting diligently by the door, waiting for his leash. Richie laughs, throwing on his parka and hat. He sticks his cigarette pack in his pocket with its lighter, just in case, and slides on his gloves, even though they’re the cool kind that don’t have any yarn over his fingertips. He can keep his hands in his pockets for the most part, anyway. 

Mr. Chips starts howling by the time Richie dresses himself, and he has to snicker, just a little.

“Calm the fuck down,” He murmurs, not unkindly, as he shakes his head and toes on his boots and throws the rickety front door open. The cold crashes over him in half a second, but that’s not the final impression. Nor is the way Mr. Chips darts out and starts to pull on the leash, firmly, in Richie’s left hand. 

Because. Holy shit. 

“Eds, you should see this.” 

It’s some kind of fucking snow globe or postcard or some shit. The snow glitters in the air, spraying around, through the doorway. Richie’s nose hairs freeze on contact, but the whole world is pretty much untouched. The roads are covered in pure, pristine, glittering white. The cars are snug under a mountain of snow and there’s a bite in the air rushing between Richie’s eyebrows. 

Standing in the doorway, in this mix of hot and cold air, his lenses start to fog. But he can still see Eddie, as he approaches, arms crossed over his chest to stay warm. He has to bite back a laugh when he sees Eddie’s jaw drop. 

The whole neighborhood, empty and quiet and cold, is beautiful. For once. 

“Whoa,” Eddie’s blinking around, from one end of the street to the other. He’s looking out at the black and white and there’s the warm glow from inside the house behind him. It’s practically a fucking halo. 

And. Yeah. You could say that. 

_ Whoa.  _

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Richie is mature enough a guy to admit, even after these past two years, he’s still attracted to Eddie. Eddie’s an attractive guy, there’s nothing wrong with that. All of Richie’s friends are attractive, actually. He’s friends with attractive people. Big deal.

People are attracted to attractive people. That’s how this thing works. It’s just the natural fucking order of things.

And -- of course -- it doesn’t help that Richie knows exactly what Eddie looks like flat on his back.

That he knows what Eddie looks like, with his face pointed to the ceiling, chest heaving and fluid drying on his chest. And how Eddie looks straddling hips. He knows of the strange stark contrast in his face, depending on how they were doing what they were doing -- how different he’d look through the reflection in a mirror while Richie was on all fours, damn near tender, versus how needy and high pitched he’d get on his back when Richie would try and take up all his empty spaces.

And maybe it’s on his mind, at night, when he’s got a hand under his waistband, but nobody can fucking blame him for it, right? He’s gotta have _something_ on his mind while he’s jacking off, and it might as well be that, right?

Right?

But just because Richie’s still super fucking attracted to Eddie doesn’t mean he’s _interested_ in him. They’re friends. Friends who used to fuck around, but still friends. Just friends.

And, like friends do, they’re lying there, heads on opposite arms of the couch. Richie’s legs are so long they’re up by Eddie’s ribcage, and Eddie’s barely make it to Richie’s hips. Mr. Chips lies there, paws up on the bridge they’re making with their legs. Richie’s holding the XBox controller, and they’re staring at a whole fucking video library of holiday shit.

Eddie’s pointing. “What about _Miracle on 34th Street_?”

“Ugh, no too corny. Grinch?”

“No. Rudolph?”

“I’m not watching any of that uncanny valley stop motion shit. You’re on your own for those. What about _The Santa Clause_?”

“No. Too soon. I have to save some of the good ones for Mom.”

Because Eddie’s not heading back home for the rest of the week, he’s going to be missing out on some of his usual kitschy holiday bullshit. And, therefore, Richie’s decided to indulge him in at least one of his traditions. That is, watching a movie every day for the countdown to the actual 25th.

Or, he _would_ be indulging him, if they could agree on a single fucking thing to watch. A “no” to Elf, to Muppets, to _Jingle All the Way_ , somehow raising their voices into an argument, apexing with, “ _For the last goddamn time, Richie, I’m not fucking watching Love Actually with you!”_

To which, Richie’s reply was: “Fine. Just stew around in your fucking fragile masculinity and ignore the feel-good love-fest where Liam Neeson doesn’t actually kill anyone.”

“Real ironic, coming from you.”

Richie cocks his head. “What’d you mean?”

“In your exact words? ‘Love is real fucked up shit.’”

“And nobody’s been able to prove me wrong.”

“And yet you’re the one who wants to watch a chick-flick rom-com.”

Richie bites his lip and flicks the queue to the next option. “What about _Die Hard_?”

And Eddie smiles and it’s toothy and broad and he pats at Mr. Chips’ head. “Perfect.”

“Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.”

  


_"Dammit, guys, I'm not fucking sulking," Richie insisted, tapping the volume control on their remote, playing with the duct tape keeping the batteries in._

_Stan could only roll his eyes. They could all tell he had some great rebuttal, but the doorbell rang._

_"Your turn, Uris," Richie said, and Stan padded to the door, big bowl of candy fastened at his hip. They never got  a ton of trick-or-treaters, considering their house looks haunted anyway, but a few brave kiddos stomped up to their door, and they're doing the mature adult thing and giving out candy. Even if they're munching on it as they make their way through Nightmare on Elm Street._

_Even though Stan went to give out the candy, Richie wasn't left entirely free of judgement. From the cozy corner section of the couch, Eddie unwrapped a Mars Bar and continued the line of thought on Stan’s behalf, "If you aren't sulking, what are you doing?"_

_"You'd think you'd be happy ffffor them," Bill said, a little quiet, head turning abruptly as Stan came back from the doorway. Nobody'd notice at the time, but Stan squeezed his shoulder as he passed and returned to his place on the sofa beside Bill._

_Richie pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm perfectly fucking happy for them. Really. If Ben and Bev wanna get laid consistently, together, that's fine. I can't think of anybody fucking better for either of them."_

_"But?" Stan prodded, knowing Richie far too well to buy into it._

_"But, they're risking this shit. We always watch movies and hand out candy to the kidlets, all seven of us. First, Mike breaks tradition by going off with his girlfriend. And then Ben and Bev join them at some cutesy costume party." Richie dropped the remote, and lifting his glasses from the bridge of his nose, started to chew on the earpiece._

_(And, as though rehearsed, both Stan and Eddie said, "Gross," at the exact same time.)_

_Richie knew better than to pay them any mind whatsoever. And he continued, all nonchalant. "We're seven, is all. We're supposed to be Lucky Seven. And now we're -- what -- Stupid Fucking Four?"_

_"Fffantastic Four?" Bill interjected, but Richie was having, approximately, none of it._

_"Well, those movies are fucking stupid, so I guess my point stands," Richie grumbled._

_Stan frowned. "I woulda thought you'd be...y'know, happy it's Ben and Bev getting together. That they’re not breaking up the friend group. We know it took a hot second for you to get used to Mike bailing on us."_

_"It's the power of the pussy," Richie said, voice faux-sagelike, and then shook his head. "But, see. If Mike breaks up with Ashley, then he's upset for awhile, we get wasted with him, but it's still fine for him to come home at the end of the night, right? But Ben and Bev? They break up and everything's gonna go to shit."_

_"W-what makes you think they'll br-break up?" Bill asked._

_Richie shrugged. "Isn't it possible?"_

_"Well, I think it's a bigger possibility for them to stay friends, even if they decide they don't wanna date. You know. Ben and Bev." Stan said, curled up on the couch._

_From his corner, Eddie snorted and Richie spun around from his place on the rug to look back at the three on the couch. "What, Eds?"_

_But Eddie just shook his head, probably up on his high fucking horse for being so much more observant than Richie was._

_In hindsight, Richie really should've seen what was happening. But that wouldn't come out for a few more months. When Stan and Bill finally emerged from Stan and Richie's room and, Richie rolled his eyes and blurted out "Well,_ **_fuck_ ** _," before swinging his arms around both of them._

 _It wasn't that he wasn't happy for the guys. He was very happy for them. But it did make his stomach hurt, just a little. If Ben and Bev got together and broke apart, and_ **_then_ ** _Bill and Stan got together and broke apart, they'd go from seven to three._

_And three is, altogether, a really shitty number._

 

 

“If I paid you,” Richie says after a bit, back in the moment, mostly as a way to gauge whether or not Eddie actually fell asleep to _Die_ _Hard_ of all things. “Would you crawl through air conditioning vents?”

“No way.” Eddie pulls a face. It’s all scrunchy and adorable and he shakes his head, disturbing Mr. Chips’ relaxation.  “Too much dust and there’s probably rats. Besides, they aren’t really built to support human weight.”

“Yeah. But Mr. Chips weighs more than you do, Eds.”

“Fuck off.” Eddie smiles.

It’s around now, Richie decides he likes watching movies with Eddie. He likes the way they’ll pull out favorite quotes and how Eddie doesn’t get mad when he quips or makes dumb jokes, even if it’s a movie that’s, really, objectively _good._ He likes how Eddie laughs and rolls his eyes at the dumb jokes.

He likes making Eddie laugh, even if it’s at the expense of someone as fucking badass as John McClane.

He’s glad, in a way, that if he’s going to be spending Christmas with any of his friends, that it’s Eddie. Even though Eds is the type to get worked up about stupid shit all the time, they’ve got this _understanding_ between them: mutual antagonism equals affection. Like, even though there’s plenty of shit Richie’s sure Eddie hates about him, and even though Richie’s could practically write a blog on Eddie’s temper and neuroses and constant eye-rolling,  it’s all like a minor blip on the radar.  

While friends usually do shit like listen and care and not insult each other by way of hello and goodbye, they will, and it’s understood they’re supposed to read between the lines.

No matter how blurry they might get.

And Richie doesn’t really know how to deal with it. Somehow, Eddie leaves him contorted into a fucking question mark and _Eddie_ seems to understand their unspoken rules with more nuance than Richie could ever pray for. And, with that nuance, he also understands how and when to break the rules and to leave them intact.  Richie doesn’t.  

But he does know that Kaspbrak’s just as fucking badass as McClane.

Even with Mr. Chips curled up under Eddie’s chin. Richie’s a little surprised Eddie’s letting the dog so close to his face, but maybe it’s relaxing hypnotism taking over: the way the wind howls when it hits the side of the house, the loud blow of gunshots and explosions on the screen, the soft colorful glow of lights around them, the shadow the menorah is casting over the coffee table. It’s quaint and it’s cute and it looks like Eddie’s about to fall asleep, big puppy dog eyes drooping and holding their own in cuteness, even when compared to the actual puppy dog.

They’ve made it, almost, through the movie when Richie finds himself sitting up. Mr. Chips hops off the couch at the disruption and Richie watches as Eddie sits on his elbows, blinking up from the screen. “What’s up, Rich?”

And it comes out before Richie even thinks about what he’s saying, “Why don’t we mess around anymore?”

Eddie’s jaw drops. “I...um...what?”

“It’s just,” Richie can feel his fucking ears turning red. “It’s Christmas. And we’re alone for a while. A couple of days, anyway. Neither of us are seeing anybody. It’s just...it’d be...you know...I was just thinking..I just...was wondering. Why we’re not doing what we used to do anymore.”  

And it’s like he’s stuck on some bizarro verbal carousel. Stuck in fucking circles, repeating the same thing over and over again. And he can feel his heart pounding and this wasn’t so much of a good idea, now that he thinks about it, because they’ve moved on, they’ve grown out of it. There’s no reason for Richie to be rolling over for Eddie. He’s perfectly capable of getting his rocks off without being Kaspbrak’s bitch.

It’s possible he’s been thinking out loud for a little bit because Eddie’s got this stupid adorable quirk in his brows and maybe he’s gotten a little closer and

“Shut _up_ , Richie.”

And now they’re kissing.

Before he even finished his one word sentence, before the ‘chie’ could break through his lips, they were on Richie, and he’s still going, leg swung up over Richie’s hips and fucking straddling him and Richie’s holding his back, fingertips under his shirt and his skin is warm under there.

Eddie’s teeth pinch at Richie’s lower lip and Richie can’t help but let out a strangled _whelp_. Eddie’s laughing at him and shivers as Richie’s fingertips dip into the curve of his back.

He makes little breathy noises, between the loud smack of lips, and Richie’s glasses are falling off. But he can’t stop smiling.

Eddie’s hands are hot, fanned over the back of Richie’s neck. He’s holding him close and squeezing his ribs between his thighs, rubbing up against him, as they do their damndest to unravel each other through their layers of clothes, out there on the couch, right in front of the window.  

 

 

The TV has been on the main menu for maybe a half hour now. Richie’s on his hands and knees, hovering  over Eddie. Eddie’s arcing up into his chest and he’s got one hand on the back of Richie’s neck and the other’s skimming over his ass and

 _\--- Jesus fuck,_ the sounds he’s making.

Those sounds, by the way, are strangled and high and breathless and Richie can only grind up against Eddie’s hips and try to wring a reprisal from his throat.

The sounds before Eddie mumbles, “Bedroom?” and the sounds after Richie answers, “Why fucking wait?”


	5. Chapter 5

“God, why haven’t any of us invested in a fucking snow blower?” Richie asks, throwing another shovel full of snow out of the driveway. His fingers went blue almost twenty minutes ago, and there’s a decent amount of snow clinging in his hair.  They’ve made a decent dent in clearing out the driveway, packed down snow and footprints taking over the fresh snowfall, becoming more pressing. 

Eddie chortles and swings around his shovel, snow flying off the green plastic. He’s wearing that stupid hat with the puff ball. “Because they’re expensive and you always spend your paychecks by Wednesday?” 

“Yeah, but what’s your excuse?” Richie flings the entire shovel of snow over to Eddie -- white falling all over him.

Eddie jumps away and shakes off the cold. “Dick.” 

And Richie winks. 

But then he’s got a face full of snow. Eddie’s thrown the contents of his own shovel directly into Richie’s face.

And, in that moment, it’s  _ on _ . 

It’s  _ so  _ fucking on. 

The snow is too fresh and fluffy to make actual snowballs, but they throw handfuls of snow at one another, in each other’s faces, over their heads. Richie can’t tell you when it started to snow, just that he and Eddie are throwing fistfuls and loose groupings of white at one another. 

At some point, Richie ends up knocked on his back in the snow. He can feel the cold seep in under his hood, and Eddie’s perched on his hips and laughing. His nose is all red and his ears peek out from under his stupid hat. Both hands perched on the strings of Richie’s hoodie when he says, soft as the snow around them, “Your lips are blue.” 

“Are they?” 

Eddie nods and slides off Richie with a soft grunt. He holds his arm out to help him to his feet and ticks his head to the door. “You’ll freeze out here.” 

And that’s why they’re standing in front of a double boiler, stirring together rum and eggnog, steady, to keep the cream from curdling. 

“Yeah, so why the fuck are we  _ heating  _ this shit?” Richie has to ask, even as he’s reaching for the nutmeg and cinnamon. 

“Because you’re literally shivering,” Eddie replies, curt, and spins the wooden spoon in the saucepan. “Besides, who wants cold drinks in the middle of December?” 

“When it’s eggnog? Normal fucking people?” 

“Don’t knock it till you try it.”

At the end of the night, he knocks it. He knocks it right back down his esophagus. Two or three full, frothy mugs worth. The heat makes the rum so much punchier, warms him from the inside out. He can hardly taste the egg, and it’s just creamy, sugary goodness. Plus the self-warming buzz that comes hand-in-hand with strong alcohol. 

They spin on the barstools, the room starting to haze in and out of vision. Richie slumps over the island, hips still swiveling on the stool, and lifts his mug into the air. “Another!” 

Eddie chortles and downs the last of his own before jumping up to his feet.

Jumping and stumbling. 

On the ground, Mr. Chips tilts his head from one side to the other, although he should probably be used to drunk shenanigans by now, Richie thinks. 

He assumes Eds is just getting up to help himself to another refill, now Richie’s suggested it, but instead he rolls his shoulders and says, voice tinged with a slur, “Help yourself, I have to cut myself off.” 

“What?” Richie finds his nose wrinkling. His frames start to slide down his nose. “Why?” 

“I have a flight to catch tomorrow morning,” Eddie’s head slides to one side. 

“Oh, shit. It’s Wednesday already, isn’t it?” Richie is definitely keeping his cool. He’s a little drunk, but not hammered and is perfectly, totally, and 100% capable of not letting on how it feels, a little, like a knife sliding between his ribs. 

“Yep. I have to be at the airport at seven tomorrow.” 

Richie can  _ hear  _ the house creaking, even though Eddie’s still here for another twelve hours, and even though Mr. Chips is still right on their ankles. The wind hits the house, like it’s going a hundred miles per hour and, once Richie gets a moment to register what’s going on in the window, behind Eddie, he can’t help but think they’d wasted all that time shovelling for nothing -- the flakes are big and fluffy and coming down in droves. It makes Richie feel cold, again, despite the hot nog in his belly.

He just doesn’t want to be alone on Christmas. Okay? 

“Gonna be hungover on the way in?” 

“I’m not that drunk,” Eddie insists, even though he starts to sway on his feet. 

“Eds, mah dear, you’re such a lightweight. And we both know it.” Richie, though, doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on. He rises to his feet and has to grab the kitchen island as the room sways beneath him.  _ Oh, well then.  _

But Eddie just rolls his eyes and places his mug in the sink. “You’re just as drunk as I am.”

“So, not at all?” 

And, then, his toes brush up on Richie’s and his hands are pressing against Richie’s chest. 

It’s a reflex: he falls back.

“Right.” Eddie snorts. “Well, drunk or not, I have to head to bed.” 

“Oh? Is that an invitation?” Richie winks, though it might just be a bit of an overexaggerated blink with both eyes. A double wink, if you will. “Want something to remember me by over the holidays?” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Oh, if you insist.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes again, and the wind howls and the lights are shimmering all over his face. But he rises onto his toes and he kisses him, soft and smooth and sweet from the drink and he whispers, “Okay,” against his lips.  

Richie has to cough. “Wait, really?” 

Eddie nods. “Just...one more time. Soon as I get back, the holidays are over, and everything goes back to normal. What do you think?” 

Eddie doesn’t have to ask him twice. Or nicely, or any of that bull. They stumble up the stairs, into Eddie’s room, this time, and kiss pressed up against the door. Richie’s knee slots between Eddie’s thighs and Eddie’s whine is nearly enough to double Richie over. 

  
  


 

_ Eddie was one hell of an instigator. He woke Richie up, at 10:45pm, on Thanksgiving, with a sharp kick to the shin and a “Psst. Richie.”  _

_ Richie rolled over to his back, blinking through the dark and groping blind for the lamp he kept next to his mattress, in a little square space of floor functioning like a bedside table. Eddie got to the little metal chain before him, and their fingers brushed. Warm yellow light filled the blackness.  _

_ It was still blurry as all hell, though, but Richie didn’t bother to reach for his glasses. “‘Sup, Eds, man?” He yawned.  _

_ “Don’t call me that,” Eddie said, apparently uninterested in conversation. When Richie opened his mouth to pry further, though, he could feel Eddie’s hand in his hair. The kiss that followed -- literally -- knocked him back on his spine.  _

_ They’d been doing this holiday thing for about a year, by that point. And they’d finally broken into their own rooms, and despite that, they still hinged on the fucking calendar.  _

_ There was a part of Richie that, actually, hated it. But he couldn’t hate much of anything, or focus on hating anything, with Eddie straddling his hips and intertwining their fingers.  _

_ “Mmmm,” Richie hummed, lower lip caught for a beat between Eddie’s teeth. “Didn’t think we’d be doing this tonight.”  _

_ “Why not?”  _

_ “Food babies aren’t sexy.”  _

_ Eddie rolled his eyes, and he was so cute, Richie just had to reach up and pinch those fucking cheeks-- _

_ And he would’ve. But Eddie tightened his grip on both his hands and threw them up above his head.  _

_ “ _ Fuck.” 

_ Eddie smiled against his teeth. “Why do you think I waited all day?”  _

_ “Because you were on the phone with your mom all afternoon?”  _

_ Another eye roll. An exasperated sigh. “If you mention my mom one more time I’m leaving, I swear to God.”  _

_ “Like you’d blue-ball yourself.”  _

_ Brows shot up, behind his bangs. Eddie’s hair was getting shaggy in that touchable way Richie would totally capitalize on if he could move his wrists. Eddie quirked his head to the side and he rolled his hips, down, breath hitching somewhere in his throat.  “Shut up, Richie.”  _

_ Then Eddie was kissing down the column of his throat - warmth spread between their palms, pressing closer, and then where their hips ground together.  Richie was shivering and stammering and didn’t  have the capacity to lift his hands, no matter what crazy shit Eddie did to him.  _

 

 

 

When Richie trudges down the narrow stairs in the morning, Eddie’s still home. He’s on the phone, hand circling his temples and with his knees buried in his oversized sweatshirt.  Just the cutest picture of exasperation as he says, “Yes, Ma, I  _ understand  _ it’s Christmas….no, of course I wanted to come home....no, there’s no flights...no, none---of course I checked!” 

Eddie goes silent and Richie can’t help but smile as he helps himself to a bowl of Trix and sits back to enjoy the shitshow that is Eddie and Mrs. K. 

And then Eddie speaks up again, “Mom. Seriously. I’m not  _ trying  _ to avoid Christmas with you. It’s just that the airports are closed….” He runs a hand through his hair and, for a second, it’s in lovely disarray, before he swipes through it again, pushing it back to neatness. “Uh-huh...yes...no...no...Mom! No!” He sighs. “Okay…yep...yeah, I’ll call you every day…of course I’ll be home for Easter….sure, I’ll come for Ash Wednesday, too. And Mass. Okay?” He pauses, “All right, Mama. I gotta go.” Another pause. This time, his eyes flick to Richie and he flushes, scarlet. “Love you, too. Okay, bye.” 

He hangs up and furrowing his brows, the very picture of exasperation. 

And Richie’s caught himself looking, and so he says, in the silence the fills the kitchen, “What? No 'I love you’ for me?” 

Eddie groans and rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” 

And, if Richie does, it’s only because he’s got a mouth full of Trix. And, once he’s swallowed, the moment’s passed. “So, your flight got cancelled?” 

“Yep.” Eddie stands from the kitchen island and pours himself a mug of coffee. “Looks like I’m stuck here for Christmas.” 

Honestly? It feels a little like a gift. 

See, Christmas is usually a pretty rough holiday for Richie. The last time he even tried to go back “home” for the holiday, he was eighteen.  He wasn’t sure how long Maggie had been on a bender, but she was drunk when he walked through the door at 9:00am and hadn’t done anything to get ready for the dinner she’d promised to make him. Richie ended up buying a ten piece bucket from KFC for the two of them. And, as for Went. He was probably with some blonde dental hygienist. Or an expensive hooker. Wherever he was, he was pretending he didn’t have a son. Richie hadn’t known the specifics and, when his father had eventually come back, he hadn’t asked. 

A few Christmases after, between nineteen and twenty-one, he’d gotten off easy. There was always a big bonus at work for the long holiday shifts, and he’d always take them up on it. He’d make bank and manage to splurge and get his friends good shit when they’d get together at New Years and party afterwards. 

And then Richie made the mistake of Pulling A Maggie and got himself completely blitzed and told all his roommates everything. It was fucking pathetic: whining like a moron.  _ They don’t love me. Can’t blame ‘em though. I’m the constant reminder that, at one point, they both fucked crazy. And we know how well that goes, am I right, guys?  _

Svedka makes him an idiot, apparently. He doesn’t touch the stuff anymore. 

But. The point is that, after that,  his fucking friends found out  _ why  _ Richie always worked so late over the holidays and, till he was twenty-four, he ended up tagging along to Maine for Christmas with the Denbroughs. 

At least till Bill married Stan and, Stan and Bill started doing Double Epic Holiday Fest or whatever the hell they’re calling it, and Richie got kicked to the curb. 

Last year, he’d hung out with Mike and his grandpa. And, this year,  Mike would still be in Colorado with Ashley. Bev and Ben are still out of the fucking picture. The Denbrough-Uris’s were being the Denbrough-Uris’s, and Eddie was supposed to be doing what Eddie did every year. Everyone had plans with husbands or girlfriends or fiancees or, in Eddie’s case, mothers. So Richie’d intended to fly solo. Maybe stop in at a hospice and see if he can make some old farts smile with a Cary Grant impression. 

But now, all of a sudden, he has Eddie. 

He doesn’t really want to, but Richie can’t help but get a little nostalgic at the idea: Eddie and him and a holiday. 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Head's Up:** This chapter has some very, very mild mentions of recreational marijuana use.

It’s about four in the fucking morning, and the snow’s glittery in the black night air. It’s pretty enough to be on a postcard, even in this shitty neighborhood, and even as Richie shivers at the open window, blowing funnels of smoke into the postcard-pretty night. 

But that’s what he gets, barefooted and without the foresight to put a sweatshirt over his tee, sitting in an open window, on Christmas Eve, smoking his third cigarette in a row.  It’s dark in the house, and outside the house, and all around the house, too. The shimmer in the snow and the streetlights and the Christmas trees in the neighbors’ windows is half distracting,  _ important  _ in its own way to Richie’s sleepy brain, but he can’t put a word to it other than ‘pretty.’ 

Though, if there’s a night that’s supposed to be pretty, Richie supposes it’s Christmas Eve. Or, maybe Christmas day itself. But prettiness doesn’t really count for all that much. 

But, if nothing else, it makes late-night smoking a hell of a lot more enjoyable. Even if he’s doing it alone. He thought he could’ve counted on Mr. Chips to stay on his heels, keeping him company. But the goddamn adorable mongrel is still down the hall, all snuggled up with Eds, the two of them snoring away. 

If Richie would listen, he could probably hear them through the thin walls. 

He leans forward to blow smoke out the window; the cold washes over him. Snow’s puffing against his forehead and cheeks, but the heat in his mouth - smoke, fire, and the fucking  _ relaxation  _ it fills in him, from the inside out -- is worth the ice on his face. Or, at least, it should be. It makes enough sense. 

“You know, it’s probably a shitty sign that you wake up and the first thing you do is smoke.” 

Richie turns around, already sensing the stupid fucking grin on his face, as he sees Eddie, leaning against the doorframe, hands knotted in the sleeves of Richie’s old hoodie. 

“Oh?” He says, lifting the cigarette up to acknowledge his friend. “And here I thought it was the healthy option.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes but steps into the room, crossing his arms over his chest the second the cold hits him. Even though he’s wearing Richie’s sweatshirt. He looks good, too. But that’s not the point.  “It’s freezing in here, Richie. If you try to sleep in here you’re  _ going  _ to get hypothermia, you know that, right?” 

“Aw, Eds.” Richie sticks his cigarette between his teeth and places both hands over his heart. Careful to articulate without letting the stick fall from his jaw, he mumbled, “Nice o’ you t’ think I can smoke in m’sleep. I’m talented, but not  _ that  _ talented.” 

“It’s not a compliment.” Eddie says, but he’s at the window, and his hip hits Richie’s knee. He’s right up in Richie’s space and he’s so much warmer than anything else in the room. 

Richie exhales, trying to get the smoke to fly out the window -- remove as much exhaust as possible from the room. And trying to inject some sort of acoustic. It’s too quiet in here, too cold. There’s just the sound of Eddie’s flannels rubbing together and the soft sound of breath and it’s too quiet and peaceful and Richie has to  _ say  _ something. And so, he taps his cigarette out the window and says, “Yeah, well. I was planning to wake and bake, but my weed gal’s out of town.” 

Eddie curls up, sitting pretzel legged with his knees under the hem of Richie’s old sweatshirt. It’s fucking adorable, even with the way his nose is crinkling.  And then, like some optical illusion in front of Richie’s eyes, he softens. Of all things, he  _ softens.  _ “Are you...okay _?”  _

“Why wouldn’t I be? What a ca-razy idea, Eds my main man,” Richie’s trying to mimic the big stoner types he sees on TV. He thinks he’s got it about half right. “Sounds like you’re trying to get me stoned.” 

“No. Definitely not. You’re twice as obnoxious when you’re high.” 

“And you’re twice as fun,” Richie shoots back. He doesn’t  _ really  _ mean it. Eddie’s fun when he’s high as a kite, but not more or less than normal. It’s just different. He gets glassy and handsy and it’s a fucking riot. 

Eddie snorts. “I’ve never smoked weed in my  _ life,  _ Rich.” 

“But you sure loved those brownies.” 

“That’s  _ different _ . Smoke -- of any kind --  lowers your immune system,” Eddie snaps. “Not that you care.” 

“Let’s just call it an oral fixation. I would’ve thought you wouldn’t complain about that.” 

“Jesus, Richie. Shut up.” 

“Well, anyway, I guess it doesn’t hurt that edibles are, like, double the strength. Maybe that’s it: go hard or go home. Who woulda thought! Eddie Kaspbrak, a closet weed fiend.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes and stands, abrupt, from the window seat. “It’s too early for this bullshit.” 

“Wait.” Richie chokes on his own smoke as Eddie turns around, brow lifted and lingering somewhere on the threshold between cute-as-a-bug-in-a-fucking-rug and handsomest-man-of-the-century. Richie bites on his cheek. “Do you wanna just...hang out for a minute? I’m almost done and then we can run right back to bed.” 

“And you really need company for that?” Eddie quips, but doesn’t move any closer to the door. 

“Well, Eds.” Richie sucks more smoke out of his cigarette and blows again out into the cold. The smoke looks blue flying from his lips. “We  _ did  _ just establish that I have an oral fixation, so it’s not like you’re getting nothing out of this.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, almost on a perpetual loop around and around, but takes his seat again, quiet, leaning back on the wall while Richie puffs blue clouds out into the night. “Do you  _ have  _ to do that?” 

“Do what? Blow you? I mean, I guess I don’t  _ have to _ , but I’m surprised you’re not jumping at the chance.” 

Eddie’s scoffing and sighing and he rubs at his temples as he says, “Do you even know how to have a serious conversation?” 

“I…” Richie blinks.  _ That  _ just came right the fuck out of nowhere. “I didn’t know smoking and oral fixation was a serious subject for you.” 

“It’s not…” Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose, annoyed lines creasing his eyelids.  “Look. Something’s happening. And you just...hide it behind bullshit--” 

“Hey--” 

“You wake up at four in the morning and immediately stick a cigarette in your mouth. It’s a rough time of year for you...your job sucks--” 

“But call centers are where dreams are born!” 

“I get you don’t wanna talk about it,” Eddie says. Slow. His fingers twitch.  “But I don’t think you’re stupid enough to think that smoking and drinking and joking around is a good enough band-aid for whatever it is. So. Maybe you should talk.” 

Richie can feel his eyes narrow. He’s down to the filter and throws his cig out the window and, on an impulse, lifts a new one to his lips. Sucking in as he lights it, he pulls his gaze away from Eddie. Richie should give Eddie the benefit of the doubt. He’s knows he looks like a hot mess to all his friends, and especially to Eddie. He’s working an entry-level job, hasn’t had a girlfriend or a boyfriend in a few years, and while everybody’s got some trajectory for a good future, Richie’s falling behind. Apparently, he guesses, Eddie’s worried about him. 

It’s kinda sweet. Even if Eddie’s being a roundabout jackass about it. 

Really sweet, actually. 

But Richie’s fine. In all areas of his life, he’s  _ fine.  _

So  _ maybe  _ he’s getting in over his head. Maybe Richie likes Eddie enough for kissing and cuddling and sex and enough to tolerate the third degree about whether everything’s okay or not. 

Maybe it’s not so ridiculous to have a best friend with a sexy angle to it. 

Richie isn’t even sure he knows when Eddie became his best friend, either. He always thought Stan would’ve been his best friend till their dying breaths, or something melodramatic like that. Or, hell, even Bill. But then Stan and Bill got married and they all got older and things got complicated.

Somehow, it happened between Richie and Eddie. They’re best friends. 

So maybe...just maybe...he should just give in. 

Shrugging, then, he gives Eds a small smile. “There’s nothin’ to talk about. ‘m fine, Eddie. Really.” 

“Just...don’t burn yourself out, okay?” Eddie’s standing suddenly. He’s standing with his hip grazing Richie’s knees and he’s reaching for Richie’s cigarette. Choking,  Richie claps on his chest, and accidentally lets the smoke spin around the room, clouding under Eddie’s face. And Eddie -- this fucking guy -- tosses the cigarette out the window and clasps the window shut. 

And he’s standing right in front of Richie and, maybe it’s the angle or the light, or the way he’s just fucking taking charge like this, but Richie’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to feel the cold anymore, not even if someone threw a snowball through the window. 

But it’s not like Richie’s going to let him know that. And so, he protests the second the air gets back in his lungs. “Well, now I’m not burning anything, am I?” 

“You’ll survive.” Eddie shrugs. “Besides. Fair is fair. You said you were almost done half a cigarette ago.” 

“So I did,” Richie shakes his head, but lets his hand slide over to Eddie’s hip. “Well. Maybe I just wanted to stay up a little longer.” 

“What makes you think that you’ll be going to sleep after this?” 

“Wasn’t that your whole schtick?”  Richie calls out, before leaning back against the freezing wall. “Going back to bed?” 

“C’mon. Hypothermia. Remember?” Eddie snickers and rolls his eyes. He reaches out, hands combing through his hair, and all the air gets caught in his lungs: hot smoke, freezing snow. All of it. 


	7. Chapter 7

Richie has never been one to admit when he’s far gone. He’s never noticed before. It’s possible that he’s never been in this predicament before, and he’d freely admit that, if the new implication of newness wasn’t so goddamn scary.

That newness, of course, being Richie’s sudden conclusion from the night before. He and Eddie were closer than they’d ever been. And the multiple ways in which they’re close 

It’s Christmas morning and they’re up at ten. Even though they’d only done it to be dumb, but they’d wrapped up a bone for Mr. Chips and set it down on the floor. And so now, they’re sitting there, watching the dog nibble and tear away at the stupid reindeer paper and Richie’s got one leg up on Eddie’s knee and it’s stupid but it’s picturesque. 

And it’s nothing like Richie would’ve anticipated from the holiday season. Because yes, the house is still empty and drafty. And, of course, he wants nothing more than all  _ seven  _ of his friends to come back and live together like they’re supposed to. But this. This is nice too, him and Eddie and Mr. Chips and the holiday. One day. Two guys. Plus dog. 

It’ll be the same as it has been, lately. They’ll watch movies on the queue and end up making out halfway in. And then Eddie’s skin presses up against Richie’s and ---

It all boils down to one thing; Richie’s such a fucking goner.  

And, he knows what it might look like. If only on the grounds that this isn’t some random hookup. It’s Eddie, for crying out loud. They have a history. They’re friends. But it’s not like he’s about to start waxing poetic about how different it is with Eddie. 

Even though. Yeah. It kind of is different. Kind of. 

Different in how sometimes they just stop and Eddie laughs at something stupid Richie’s said and they have their stupid foreheads pressed against each other, laughing till they’re gasping for air and half to break it up by pressing their lips against each other. 

But it’s not like Richie’s...catching...feelings, or anything. 

Of course not...it’s  _ Eddie.  _

He’s cute and he’s a dick sometimes and he’s fucking badass and Richie’s smiling so much, his fucking face goes numb when he’s around the guy for more than three hours at a time. That Eddie. Eddie, the guy Richie just realized was his best friend one day ago. 

He’s a different brand of friend, but not the kind that you lay down and think about once the afterglow fades. 

Which, Richie knows. He totally gets it. In theory. In practice it’s getting a little difficult. 

But just because the snow isn’t letting up.. Just because it’s Christmas day and the tree is so pretty and the snow is floating down, fluffy and huge puffy flakes. Just because it’s cold as balls outside. 

Which happens to be cold enough to facilitate a coin toss. Richie loses and he’s practically dancing around on the sidewalk while Mr. Chips takes his damn sweet time smelling around snowbanks and mailboxes before he finally deigns to do his business. 

Richie, for his part, can feel the hair freeze to the walls of his nose and wonders just  _ how  _ important it is for Mr. Chips to get his walk in today. Richie will  _ totally  _ take the blame if Mike thinks Mr. Chips got fat over the holidays, if only it means he can get warm and dive back inside, to warm cinnamon pancakes and coffee and whatever the final movie for the holiday marathon is supposed to be. 

He waits, impatiently, for the dog to lift his leg and, once Mr. Chips is done, practically bolts back into the house, the snow melting the second it flies in through the threshold. 

  
  


 

 

" _ Love Actually _ ?" Richie blinks, stepping inside and shedding his layers. "I thought you hated this movie?" 

"I do." Eddie rolls his eyes, curling himself up in a throw blanket. "Christmas is about doing nice shit for others, isn’t it?" 

And Richie can't help but smile, hopping onto the sofa beside Eddie to watch the hundreds of smiling faces embracing each other at the airport. 

It's not till the exposition's done, all the massive cast are introduced, and their plots hinted and expressed, that Eddie speaks up again. “Okay, so remind me why Liam Neeson isn’t killing people.” 

“He has to be his stepson’s wingman.” 

“His stepson looks four.” 

“His stepson looks older than you do.” 

“Shut up, Richie.” 

Richie’s brain takes everything in and, for a flash of a moment, everything  _ shines _ . Everything’s good. Everything’s demanding the center stage, like it always is. But this time, it’s true. The rom-com chick-flick bullshit Eddie put on, the way Eddie’s head falls on his shoulder, Mr. Chips’ tail thumpling against the back of the couch. The steam in the coffee cup and the wailing snow outside. Everything’s good and everything’s crucial and Richie’s watching it all, and he doesn’t fight the way things compete for importance. 

They’re petting Mr. Chips and Eddie’s running his fingers over the edges of the throw blanket and maybe he’s looking a little far away and Richie doesn’t quite know what to make of it. But his first instinct is to sit closer. 

He does, but there’s still a dog between them and Eddie doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t comment. Either way, they sit for a while -- Eddie looking at the screen with mild disdain and Richie looking at Eddie, and there’s so much to hear it’s hard to pick: the wind hitting the side of the building and the  _ fantastic fucking dialogue  _ and Mr. Chips shuffling quietly between then. 

There’s plenty to see, too. But it’s less overwhelming. Like how Eddie’s hair curls a little at the nape of his neck, how his turtleneck is leaving fuzzies on the curls, the dry skin over his bottom lip. 

How’d he get to be….so much? Jesus.  _ Fuck _ . 

Richie looks back over to the screen. Kiera Knightly just found out Andrew Lincoln’s version of her wedding tape edged on the stalking. Safe enough a time as any, Richie thinks. He knows Eddie’s gonna have a problem with this subplot, anyway. 

Richie brings his knuckles up to his lips and aims to distract. 

Eddie smiles, fans out his fingers over Richie’s jawline, and says, “You go from zero to one hundred real quick, don’t ya?” 

“I’ll show you zero to one hundred…” 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” 

“Or does it just not make sense ‘cause all your blood’s rushing to your coc--” 

“Shut up and kiss me, Tozier.” 

And if Richie feels a little warm and fuzzy, it’s just what comes with making out with a hot guy. The soft, warm, wetness of lips and tongue, the pinch of teeth and gentle sucking between mouths. Like, even though they’re managing to keep their clothes on and it doesn’t look like they’re gonna go much further than this, but it’s nice, for now, as he rests his head in the crook of Eddie’s neck and they turn back to their movie, and Richie can’t help but think he could really get used to this.

Would it  _ really  _ be so bad to make a habit of this? Like, even after the holidays are...

Even after the holidays are over. 

Wait. 

“ _ Oh fuck.”   _

“What was that?” Eddie asks and, oh no, had he actually said that aloud? 

“Well, usually when we’re in this position and I say that…” 

“You’re not that turned on,” Eddie says, dryly, “So what’s going on?” 

“We’re missing the best part of the movie, that’s all.” 

“Hugh Grant firing his assistant is the best part?” Eddie quirks his eyebrow. “And I’ve won the fucking Nobel prize.” 

“Wow! Good for you, Eds. I hope you remembered us little people in your speech---” 

“Be serious, Richie. Please.” 

Richie sighs.. Offering a small salute to the screen, he finally presses his lips together. “So, you know how we said,  before your flight got cancelled, that we’d just do this once...which, obviously, didn’t fucking happen.” 

“Well, obviously,” Eddie rests his head on his knuckles. “What about it?”

“I was just wondering if you wanted to extend it over again. Like. For New Years. Or...after that. We could even do some not-sex-stuff sometimes. But just the two of us. Or something..” 

Eddie sits up, abrupt. His eyes are bugging out; like a fucking cartoon character. “Richie…” 

“I’m serious, Eds. We could do this,” He flickers his hands, between the two of them. “For real.” 

“Stop it,” Eddie stands and circles back to the kitchen alcove, getting a glass from the cupboard. “Saying ‘for real’ doesn’t automatically give you credibility.”  

Richie can feel his mouth draw into a thin line. Because - what’s he supposed to say?  _ Yeah, but I realized a couple days ago, not only does your dick fit perfectly down my throat, but somehow you’ve become my best friend and I know I always talk big about not dating your favorite people, but someone really should’ve shut me up about it ‘cause I’m eating my own fucking words now.  _

Yeah. He’s definitely not saying it. 

So, instead he says, “I guess I’ve missed your o-face.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Well. Congrats. You got that much.” 

“I’m trying here.” Richie sighs; he can feel the scratch in his throat. “Can’t you see the sweat pouring down my face?” 

He only hears the beginning of a very Eddie-esque  _ growl  _ before he’s backpedaling: “Okay. Okay. Fair enough. Bad timing. ‘Read the room, Trashmouth.’ I get it. But,” He lets his hand graze Eddie’s knuckles. Feather light and almost like a wish. “I hope you know me well enough to know that, despite my douchebag name, I’m not gonna dick you around.” 

It takes Eddie a moment, his eyes narrow before they widened. As though he’d only just remembered. “Do I?” He asks, once he finally reaches his peak realization. 

“I think so.”  Richie nods. And then he takes a deep breath. Whether this is brave or stupid he doesn’t know, but he’s willing to bank on both. “And I also think that I probably know you well enough to know you’re not gonna leave me hanging.” 

Good sign: Eddie chuckles. He shakes his head and turns to Richie and he’s got a sly glint in his eye that Richie very much likes when he says, “Well, maybe I know you better than you know me.” 

“Oh, perish the thought, good sir! Why, I could name all the times you’ve--” Richie begins. He delivers big movements that may or may not force a fairly disgruntled Mr. Chips to start in his bed. But Eddie cuts him off. 

“That’s the problem. I don’t know if you’re gonna dick me around or not. I can’t fucking tell with you, Rich. But...shit. You’re my friend. I trust you.” He says, slowly at first, before tacking on under his breath, “Even though maybe I shouldn’t.” 

Richie’ll let that slide. He’s too busy building up the courage to smile. He looks at Eddie and his eyes are big and he's staring at him like he's grown a second head. But, like, a second head he's fond of. It's some weird mix of fascination and fear and some other fucking word starting with F that Richie can't quite pin down. 

_ So. What'll it be, Eds?  _ And he asks him and holds his breath and Eddie has a hand on the back of his neck. 

Eddie sighs. "Are you sure you've thought this through? You’re not gonna fizzle out the second everybody comes back home?" 

"Well, I've only been thinking about it nonstop for, like, an entire week. And it's been on the back burner for, like, two years. So. Yeah." 

Eddie takes a breath, apparently opting not to tell him to fuck the fuck off. Richie watches his chest rise and fall and all he says is "Okay." 

And he leans in and kisses Richie and, even though Richie really should've expected it, it flings him back on his heels. 

Mr. Chips barks and, in the background, the rom-com chick flick bullshit plays on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to chat/fan out with me/talk shop/whatever, you can reach me at sporksiewrites@gmail.com or via Tumblr. I'm sporklift there also. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading and for all the kudos and comments! And another special thanks to my beta _nerd-bomber_ I hope everyone has happy holidays going forward!


	8. Epilogue

The last three days have, for Richie, been really fucking weird. At least insofar as Eddie is concerned. They’re dating now. It’s not just hooking up when there’s a red circle around the calendar. They’re boyfriends _._

And, while Richie isn’t exactly in the practice of being anybody’s boyfriend, the thing he’s liked best about the past few days, is the way he can just pop in on Eds, kiss his forehead, or nose, or lips. It doesn’t necessarily mean foreplay -- it’s not a prelude. He can do it just because he wants to.

And, dear lord, he wants to.

Which, often, prompts Eddie to say something like, “For someone who hated the idea of relationships for years, you’re a fuckin’ sap.”

Richie always has some oh-so-clever come back, like, “Don’t know about that, but feel free to climb me like I’m a maple tree.”

And depending on Eddie’s mood that either gets a laugh or a scoff or a goddamn lecture. Which, really, makes it seem like it’s not so different than it’s always been. Except for the whole “boyfriend” thing. As far as he can tell, he’s got it fucking made.

But he knows if he say that out loud, Eddie’s just gonna call him a sap again. Then Richie will say something hilarious and clever and Eddie will roll his eyes and then they’ll just be trading barbs ad-nauseam. Or at least until something forces them to call it quits.

Nine times out of ten, that something is Mr. Chips, dancing around the door, whining and begging to be let out. Seven times out of ten, it’s Richie who goes out with him. Not because Eddie’s entirely averse to the fucking freezing weather (though, he is), but because Richie’s usually aching for another cigarette by that point so it just works out.

At least the snow’s let up in the few days since Christmas, Richie notices the still gray air and -- walking around, sucking on a Newport, freezing his balls off, waiting for Mr. Chips to decide what place is worthy of his excrement -- he can’t help but think it’s actually sort of gorgeous. Gray and still and unimpressive, cheap houses with panels splintering off the sides. But gorgeous nonetheless.

He hums a little tune as he walks, creating a beat with his pace. Or, well. He’s _trying._ It doesn’t help with four, much shorter, legs right by his side. Not to mention those legs want to constantly roam over to snow banks to sniff and at least ponder the possibility of peeing.

And Richie lets Mr. Chips take his damn time. What’s the worst that could happen? Frostbite?

Or maybe it’s how Mr. Chips is turning and staring at this weird car that’s slowing down beside them. It’s shiny and new and has tinted windows. Richie’s never seen it in the neighborhood before.

“C’mon,” He hisses to Mr. Chips, stepping away, increasing his pace. “Let’s go.”

He’s not nervous. It’s just generally agreed upon when strange cars slow down around you to, y’know, keep moving.

He can hear the crunch of tires against snow behind him and it looks like these motherfuckers in the car are still there, but he’s not about to turn around. At least not until the crunch stops, he hears the door slam from behind (he’s increased his pace at this point, and Mr. Chips is bounding around his legs), and, “Hey! Mind if I bum one?”

Recognizing the voice, Richie almost trips over his legs and the leash as he pivots, flailing a little in the hands so he could grab his cigarette before it fell from his teeth. Wide grin, he laughs. “Beverly fuckin’ Marsh! Give me a heart-attack, why don’t ya?”

And he’s over beside the car, spinning her around in the biggest big ass bear-hug he can manage. They were probably tangled up in the leash at one point, but Mr. Chips’ antics already has them untangled. And tangled again. And untangled. It’s impossible to keep track.

Richie leans down to peer inside the window. It’s rolled down now, and Ben’s snickering, one hand on the steering wheel and the other over his mouth.

“Hey, Haystack. Was this your idea or were you an innocent bystander?”

“What do you think?”

“Innocent as ever!” Richie declares and Bev swats at his shoulder.

“Hey! He _drove.”_

“When you told me to!” Ben calls, a little sing-songy, from inside the car.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bev waves an arm. “Anyway. We saw you walking and _we_ just couldn’t resist. Can we give you a lift back to the house or are you not done here?”

Mr. Chips barks. And Richie laughs. “I guess we’re done.”

They pile in. Bev in the honorary shotgun seat, with Richie and Mr. Chips in the back. He thought, for a moment, to ask if they were allowed to have dogs in the car that’s so obviously a rental from the airport, but figures they wouldn’t have invited them in if they were too worried about shedding or slobber of whatever other reason people refuse to let animals into their vehicles.

“Anyone else at the house?” Ben asks, as they pull a U-turn in the road and putter down in the direction of the old broken house they all used to share.

 

 

Honestly, they considered getting in a good one on Eds. Richie and Bev had made this plan to act like Richie had gotten in the car with some strangers and really ruffle his feathers. But Eddie had to go and ruin it by looking out the window right when they pulled up and seeing all four of them pile out of the car.

So. That was out. But it didn’t take away from the way Eds just lights right the fuck up as Bev and Ben lumber in behind Richie. He has to reach up to give both Ben and Beverly their hugs and - because he’s trying so hard to be classy - asks to take their coats.

To that, Richie has to laugh. Not his fault - he just has to. “Geez, Eds. It’s not like they forgot where the hooks are.”

“It’s called being a good host, dumbass.” Eddie tosses back, holding Ben’s parka in one hand and trying to wrestle Beverly out of hers, shakingly, with the other.

“Is it _hosting_ if it’s their home away from home?”

“Yes.” Eddie snaps and, though Richie wants to push it, he doesn’t have time before Ben cuts in.  

“Our old room is Mike’s now, isn’t it? So, where are we staying? Out here? Should we hide our suitcase somewhere?”

“Oh, nah. You guys can have my room. I’m not using it--”

“ _Goddammit, Richie.”_

Richie doesn’t even realize what the hell is the big deal before he sees Bev’s mouth fall open. She’s gaping and gesturing between them.

“Wait,” she says, mouth twisting up into this shit-eating grin. “Why aren’t you using your room, _Richie_?”

Before now, Richie would’ve put money on his poker face. He would’ve said it was like a steel trap. Nothing’s getting through. But now, he twists his head to get a better look at Eddie, and Eddie’s ears are scarlet and Beverly _laughs_ and now Richie knows his poker face is fucking transparent.

“Oh, my god.” Beverly says, extending a flat palm up towards Ben. “ _Again?”_

Richie doesn’t know whether or not to be appalled when Ben reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and slips Beverly a twenty dollar bill.

“ _Again?!”_ Eddie can articulate it quicker though, and his voice is higher than it’s been in years. “What the _fuck,_ guys? You were _betting_? And what the hell do you mean ‘again?!’”

“These walls are super thin.” Bev says, smirking between Eddie and Richie. We’ve _all_ heard some things.”

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, halfway to a whimper and holds his face into his hands.

“Wow,” Richie returns, elbowing Eddie’s shoulder. “Glad to know dating me is _sooo_ embarrassing.”

It’s mostly a joke. Mostly.

“Wait.” Ben says, his own grin widening. “ _Dating?_ You’re not just hooking up again?”

“Au contraire.” Richie says, holding one hand over his heart and trying to take Eddie’s head to his chest. Eds wiggles a bit and tries to pull away, though without any actual effort.  Richie throws a hand up over his forehead.  “We go on long romantic walks down the alleyway to wait for Mr. Chips to shit. It took our dear Eds a long ass time, but he finally wore me down and won me over! Why--”

“Oh, beep-beep, Richie.” Eddie finally puts in the effort and squirms away. “No. If you need to know. We started hooking up--”

“Again,” Bev puts in.

“Yeah, yeah. Since you already know.” Eddie waves his hand over his face. Richie can’t help but smile at his flusteredness. “Again. But, anyway. We’re trying out the relationship thing. Though I’m starting to reconsider.” He finishes with a very pointed look at Richie.

For his part, Richie just winks and says, before he can stop it, “Oh, you love me, Eds.”

Eddie bites his lip and Richie will not take the time to consider if that means anything. He just won’t.

But thankfully, he doesn’t have enough time to. Ben turns over to Beverly, cheeks still red from the cold, and says, “Hear that, Bev? They’re _dating_.”

“Yes. I heard.” Beverly says, tight, and the twenty dollar bill changes hands again.

 

 

Mike returns home, with his girlfriend, the next morning. Richie, Eddie, Bev, and Ben are all sitting around the kitchen island, doctoring their pancakes to their heart’s content, when the door swings open.

“We’re home!” Mike says, before the door can even open all the way. Mr. Chips is up from the couch immediately - jumping up on Mike’s knees and howling with excitement. His little butt is in a frenzy, shaking so fast you can barely see it, as Mike stoops to his knees to give his dog some much-needed love and attention. “Hey there, man. Did the guys take care of you, huh?” He asks, scratching him behind the ears before turning back to his friends.

Richie is the first on his feet to greet them, even if it’s at the expense of some maple syrup getting on his sleeve. And, then, onto Mike and Ashley when he does to hug them. “It’s the snowbirds! Long time no see!”

Sticky, syrupy hugs are exchanged -- possibly all because of Richie -- and laughter echoes through the kitchen, punctuated by barks and excited hums and laughs as they all sit down, crammed against the kitchen island.

Mike and Ashley help themselves to a plate, since they hadn’t eaten on the plane, and try to shuffle around the stools. Ashley, because she’s nearly as short as Eddie (though a little taller), hops up on the counter to enjoy her breakfast.

“How was Colorado?” Ben asks, once they’re all seated.

And, Richie swears, he rarely ever sees Mike smile so big, unless he’s talking about a really good book. Mike says, over a spoonful of peanut butter smeared pancakes, “Oh, it was great! The mountains were so big and just gorgeous. We’d spend the day skiing and then come back to this huge fire and giant Christmas tree. The resort even had holiday dinners.”

Ashley nods. “And it was the cutest place, guys. You all would’ve loved it.”

“Well, I do always opt for cute.” Richie says, earning a sharp elbow in the side from Eddie.

If anyone notices, nobody says anything. Mike’s gone back to talking about the skiing - the long days, the way the snow would glitter off the sides of the mountains. The heights and cold air over the ski lifts. The adventures of getting lost trying to go into town and catching a movie.

They certainly had an adventure, and while Richie’s inclined to always look for what’s exciting, he can’t help but feel like he had the best one. Not that he’s comparing or anything. Because he’s definitely not. But if he was. He’d win. That’s all.

“--- And there’s so much stuff to do,” Mike goes on. “Sleigh rides and parades and there was this party, too.”

“Mike forgot to pack a nice suit, though. So we had to improvise with a winter vest,” Ashley says, laughing as Beverly covers her face in her hands.

Richie couldn’t tell why though. Must be some fashion thing he doesn’t get.

But, fashion or no, it’s still nice to hear everybody together, in the recognizable acoustics of his kitchen, back together -- crammed in the island, elbowing each other.

“I think it’s time we invest in an actual table,” Mike says, once he’s done sharing stories of his Colorado Adventures, chuckling in how crowded they are. “We’re short two people and it’s already too full.”  

“I’ve been saying that for years,” Eddie grumbles, but smiles over his fork, dusted white with the powdered sugar he blankets his pancakes in. A decent amount ends up on the corner of his mouth. “But y’know. Whatever.”

“You got something on your face,” Richie cuts in, and before he knows what he’s doing, reaches out and swipes his thumb over the sugar. Eddie quite visibly shivers and Richie, feeling proud of himself, sticks his thumb in his mouth, taking up the sweetness.

Mike and Ashley notice. Of course they do. But they don’t say anything and -- thankfully -- no money is exchanged this time.

At least none that Richie notices.

 

 

It’s not till New Years Eve, although it’s early in the morning, that everyone’s reunited. Richie wakes up to the sound of a motor in the driveway. It’s probably, like, six or something, and he rolls over, knocking noses with Eddie as he does so, and reaches over his shoulder to pull the curtain away.

Eddie shivers, because of fucking course he does, and mumbles, “Ge’awf, Richie. Lemme fuckin’ sleep.”

Richie doesn’t have enough time to weigh what might be more or less annoying, too busy watching the figures on the street below, pull the suitcases - overstuffed and heavy-looking - from the back of the cab. Bill’s looking like he’s straining from the weight, and Stan’s trying to stack all the carry-ons and, what looks like an extra packing box, all in his arms. “Bill and Stan are back,” He says, peeling the duvet from his body, icy air hitting his skin.

“Great,” Eddie mumbles, pulling more blankets in for himself. “Think they’ll still be here at a normal fucking time?”

It’s amazing how, in that moment, everything is so fucking normal and so ridiculously special. Eddie’s so fucking cute, cocooned in to the blanket, swearing and grumbling his way back into the land of nod. His face is red and lined with a pillow scar, eyes droopy in the split second they opened before settling - quite happily - shut tight.

And, Richie can’t help it, he leans over and kisses his temple.

Eddie swats at him. “G’ _awf,_ Richie. Fuckin’ hell shit _fuck_. Lemme sleep.”

“Anything you say, Eds.” Richie snickers and ruffles his hair once more, but this time catches the hand when it swings out, and kisses his palm, before turning around and running the fuck out of the room.

Their room.

He smiles as he jumps down the rickety stairs, house starting to shake under his feet. He’s there when the door creaks open, slowly and cautiously, and flings himself between Stan and Bill, greeting them with arms around their shoulders. “Well, well, well. The prodigal sons return!”  

 

 

For a second, when Richie stops to take his coat off in the entryway, everything looks perfect. His glasses are foggy, but even though he can’t make out shapes and details through the haze; it’s still perfect. He and Bev came back in from a smoke break on the porch, and everyone’s sitting around, whichever New Years show they’re playing on the TV, sipping their mixed drinks, and laughing at something Richie and Bev missed.

Richie knows better than to ask. He’ll just get a lecture from Stan and Eddie about how he’d be able to be a part of things if he didn’t have to step out every couple hours.

But it’s okay. It’s almost worth it, coming back to this and seeing, after everything; they’re home. They’re together, and it’s like nothing changed.

Well. Sure. Things have changed. Bev and Ben have all these stories about Chicago. Mike spends less time than ever at home. Stan and Bill have married things to worry about. And, hell, even Richie has something new to worry about.

So yes. Things have changed. But - nothing important has changed. It’s still them. They still come together, to bring in this new year, and be together. And that’s what matters, far as Richie’s concerned.

He kicks off his boots and rubs his freezing hands together, before collapsing on the floor, leaning back between Eddie’s knees. Hands slide onto his head, picking out the snowflakes. It’s mesmerizing, soothing, fucking _nice_. He blinks through the haze, fog fading as he heats back up to room temperature, gazing in the image: all of his friends, gathered together, home again. Mike and Ben are slumped over the coffee table on one side, Stan and Ashley on the other, cards in hand and a rousing game of bridge building between them.

Apparently, Richie thinks, all his friends are ninety-five. But it’s still perfect. With a sigh, he leans back again against Eddie’s knees and lets Eddie’s conversation with Bill and Bev fade into white noise. He’s left to drink it all in. The house creaks and wails around them, and Richie allows himself to hear it. It can’t hurt him. It can’t even bother him. He’s with all his friends, right now, in this house they used to share, Eddie’s hands have moved down to his shoulders and they rest there. And, right now, Richie could let it last forever -- there’s something about it. They’re all home. They’re all together.

Richie takes a highball glass and pours himself a jack and coke. There’s way more Coke than Jack, but he’d prefer sugar over the burn of alcohol. And, either way, he’s gonna be feeling it by midnight. They’ve already set out all sort of alcohol, mixers, and a few gallons of water, just to be safe. They’ve got a wild assortment: Jack and Smirnoff and some brand Richie doesn’t know of tequila.  Cokes and tonic waters and margarita mix to make it tolerable.

 Ben surprises everyone by pulling out a bottle of actual champagne and setting it on ice.

“Holy shit Haystack,” Richie comments. “Look who’s an actual adult.”

Ben blushes and shrugs. “It’s New Years. We’re all back home. We need something fizzy to celebrate.”

And, really, Richie can’t agree more.

 

 

Around ten, they pile around the living room, a little loosey goosey, a little off kilter even as they sit, to talk about the New Year and the old one and all that sentimental shit. Ashley suggested it a couple years ago, and it’s become something of a tradition.

He might give it a hard time, but Richie kinda likes it.

Because she started it, Ashley goes first. She talks about her winter vacation with Mike and her acceptance into nursing school as the highlights of her year. She says she’s looking forward to all the new opportunities with school when the semester starts up.

Mike’s next. His highlight is seeing his granddad’s improvement after his stroke. It’s almost revoltingly kind of him. He’s had a good year. He finished his master’s in library science. He’s getting a promotion and a pay raise from it when he comes back in January. And, still, his highlight is his grandad. His hope for next year, too, is to talk to him more on the phone.

Ben’s thankful for everything. Because of course he is. He says it was a tough year, but a good one, and he’s thankful he’s getting acclimated to Chicago. But - of course - his big highlight was getting that engagement ring on Bev’s finger. Nobody’s surprised. His hope, then, is adding the wedding ring on.

Everybody gags and makes a show of it, but nobody actually means it. It’s adorable. It’s nice.

It’s working out. Friends are being with friends and it’s lasting. And that’s suck a fucking relief.

Stan says he’s thankful that nobody got hurt or sick during the year. He’s hoping to spend a little more time pursuing things that’ll make him happy -- interests and hobbies and that shit. He’s short about it and tight lipped and Richie resolves to make him laugh about something dumb later.

Bev’s highlight was how her internship gave way to a full time position. It’s the first anyone’s heard of this and, even though there’s a pang deep in Richie’s gut - feeling the permanency of Chicago for Bev and Ben - it’d be stupid not to be happy for her. And he’s trying, so hard, not to be stupid. For her hopes for the New Year, she winks at Ben, and says she shares his hope for the new year.

It’s almost disgustingly cute. But they don’t have much time for that - because it’s Bill’s turn.  And Bill, bless his fucking heart, talks about the entire fucking year. How it’s been a roller coaster of craziness, how he’s thankful for all the shit he’s learned and - even though no one thing stands out to him, he thinks it’s come together nicely. And his hope?

Apparently, he and Stan are going to look for their own place. He wants to find one by next December.

Richie feels his gut wrench, but smiles anyway and claps Bill on the knee and pretends he’s not afraid of everyone leaving him behind.  Bill and Stan are leaving. Bev and Ben already left. Mike practically lives at Ashley’s nowadays.

It’s Eddie’s turn and, much to Richie’s dismay, his highlight of the past year is not that he’s finally been able to give Richie a good dicking on the regular. It’s that he’s finally met his savings goal (and he thanks Stan for the accounting tips) and, when he can’t think of anything more creative, says, “I mean, it’s been a kinda shitty year.”

And Bill raises a brow and gestures between Eddie and Richie. “Wh-what about…?”

Eddie’s turning crimson. “Well. Yeah. But I’m not about to do all that sappy shit right now.”

From Bill, a chortle. “Bu-but you’ve wanted to ffffor years.”

“Shut up!”

To this, Richie jumps to his feet.

“For years? Why, my little Eddie Spaghetti!” Everyone groans and Richie just smiles. “That’ll be mine then! The best part of my year as finally -- after all these _long, lonely years --_ getting to do the horizontal tango with my dear Eds.”

“No,” Bev shakes her head. “You guys have been hooking up for years. That can’t count.”

Both Eddie and Richie’s head snap to her. Eddie’s even redder than before, if that’s possible. “What? How…?”

Stan answers. “The walls are really thin.”

“So thin,” Mike adds.

“New one,” Ben urges, pouring himself a vodka tonic.

“But this _is_ new!” Richie claims, holding his hand over his heart. “It’s on the regular now. It’s, like, a dating type situation.”

Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “That can’t possibly be the highlight of your year.”

Taking both his shoulders, Richie corrals him into his arms, smiling when he hears the small _oof_ escape Eddie’s throat, and kissing the top of his head. “Shows what you know.”

“Okay, fine,” Mike says, with a chortle. He’s got one arm around Ashley and the other absently pets at a slumbering Mr. Chips in his lap. “So what are you hoping for in the New Year, Richie?”

“I’m gonna quit my job.”

It comes barreling out before Richie can stop it. And he realizes. Yes. That’s what he wants. That’s the next step. Quit his stupid fucking job. Get something that’s less of a rat race. Something that’ll make him feel less small.

It’s sudden. But. Yeah. Everyone else is moving on and moving out. Why shouldn’t he?

“What?” comes from pretty much everyone, echoing through the space. Mr. Chips wakes up with a jolt and Richie’s smiling.

“Yeah. I’m gonna quit my job.”

“And do _what_?” Eddie asks, pulling away from Richie’s chest in order to look him in the eye.

He hasn’t thought it through that far, so he shrugs. “Always wanted to work in radio when I was a kid. Maybe that. I dunno.”

“Good for you, Rich.” Bev says, lifting her whiskey and everyone joins her.

Richie doesn’t want to feel smug. But he can feel his heart grow, just a little bit, in that moment.

 

 

The rest of the night passes quickly. Richie looks back and sees it in snapshots. One second they’re playing cards. And then they’re watching the ball drop. The clock strikes twelve and Eddie kisses him.

It’s an amazing kiss -- out there, in front of all the other kissing couples -- and lasts a few good seconds. Like a promise. It might be old hat for them - being together on a holiday. But, it’s gonna stick. They’ll be together on Valentine’s and St. Patrick’s and Halloween, but also on January 11th and April 17th and November 2nd. And maybe Richie will get a new job, and maybe Stan and Bill will move out, and Mike’ll permanently move himself and Mr. Chips to Ashley’s.

Things are changing, but - Richie doesn’t know why - right now, toasting champagne with all his friends, kissing the top of Eddie’s head - he can’t help but feel like it’ll work out. They’ll stay in contact, he won’t neglect when his friends need him, and even though he still hates the idea of being in this old rickety house along, he doesn’t need to be.

It’ll work out. He knows it. It’s something in the air. Maybe it’s just something about New Years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm like a week late, but here it is. Thanks to everyone for their patience, and I hope you enjoy the New Years Epilogue! I hope everyone who celebrates had a happy holiday season and that the New Year is shaping up in a lovely kinda way! 
> 
> Once again, special thanks to everyone who read, commented, kudos'd, and urged me to write this epilogue! I hope it lives up to the expectation! ♥


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